


we fade to grey

by flyingkumquats



Category: B.A.P
Genre: (but on purpose), (seriously descriptions get painful), Body Horror, Drug Use, Gore, M/M, Unreliable Narration, Vampire AU, a lot of guilt, blatant drug addiction metaphor, brief mentions of other members, if you're after sexy vampires this is not the fic you are looking for, overly descriptive writing style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 16:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12172380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingkumquats/pseuds/flyingkumquats
Summary: When that first drop of human blood hits his mouth, his world is painted anew.or: Jongup is a vampire who is trying to abstain from human blood. Things don't work out as planned.





	we fade to grey

When that first drop of human blood hits his mouth, his world is painted anew. The thick scent of salt hits his nostrils, the thick iron taste as it trickles across his tongue, painting a path down his throat. There’s nothing like it.

If Jongup were to compare it to anything, it would be to colour TV. Or, to be more specific, to the feeling of seeing a colour television for the first time, after years spent with a small black and white screen: the world exploding in technicolour; rich and vibrant and so seductively warm.

It’s an apt metaphor, but it’s not one hundred percent accurate; it doesn’t account for the sheer amount of life that courses through his veins, for the rush of warmth that paints his cheeks red from the inside. The way that the omnipresent chill of the undead recedes, leaving nothing but warmth in its wake.

His jaw slides back into place with a loud crick, muscle grinding against bone and teeth retracting back into his gums. A split second of agony that fades as soon as the blood takes hold.

He feels something twitching against the skin tight fabric of his black, ripped up jeans.

Or perhaps something _has_ been twitching against his jeans for a while now, and he’s only just noticed.

He doesn’t need to look, though; already knows what it is, and doesn’t really want to think about it anyway. Not while the world is blurring at the edges and colours are burning his retinas.

Besides, he already knows - or suspects, at least - that he didn’t drink enough to kill. And he’s damn sure that he didn’t leave his mark.

At worst, they’ll wake with a sensation reminiscent of a bad hangover, wincing at the too bright sunlight as they wonder what the hell it was that happened last night. 

No, his victim doesn’t trouble him in the slightest.

Instead, his guilt manifests in mental flashes of a bunny toothed smile, the way his smooth skin dimples beneath the creases of his eyes.

But he doesn’t want to think about that, pushes the thought into the clouds that are starting to take shape in his brain.

So what if the the alleyway is starting to spin a little bit, now, and maybe he just needs to step away and sit down for a bit? Possibly? Just until the world starts rotating at a normal pace?

He should move, but he doesn’t. Because there’s something twitching against the skin tight fabric of his black, ripped up jeans, and it’s distracting him, and — wait. Hasn’t he had this thought before?

***

Jongup loves this.

He loves the acrid scent of fake fog, the faint memory of candlelit streets and horse drawn carts. Loves the the bright neon lights, cutting through the dark and painting his skin with all of the colours - now cyan, now purple, now white, now black. He loves the thump, thump, thump of the music as it enters his ears, as he feels it with the sway of his body, with the vibration of the metal grates that he holds loosely in the curl of his fingers.

He loves these funny little humans, too. They’re so solid and substantial and utterly warm; with their sun marks and the way that blood sets their skin ablaze with deep browns or tans or pale pinks. With their orange buds of light in the deep shadows, reflected in the dark lenses of black sunglasses.

He pretends to be like them, jerking his shoulders in the way that passes for dancing these days. Imagines that his own brown skin isn’t washed out, that the sight of the long exposed lines of their throats doesn’t make his teeth itch.

Not for the first time, he wonders why the hell he ever gave it up.

(Then he recalls the sight of Himchan hyung’s burning stare, so intense that he could feel it all the way across the small candlelit bar that he used to frequent.) 

(At the time, giving it up had seemed like the only sensible option.)

He loves humans, but they’re so strange at the same time, so different from what he’s used. Now they’re all angles; sharp lines, dark plastic clothes, big silver chunks of jewellery, and skinny shades at night.

He watches through hooded eyes as one of them open their mouth, a dark hole framed by lips painted in ruby red. A pill passes from a velvet gloved hand to their offered tongue, and that’s different, too.

He can’t help but wonder why. Why they need to feel more, or less, even. Isn’t it enough to hear the rush of blood in their ears? To taste things other than metal and salt, to feel the sun on their skin, to -

But.

No.

That’s an unhappy thought.

He shakes his head, wisps of sticky hair brushing against his brow line as he tells himself to cheer up, Uppie. Dark thoughts have no place here. Not amidst the music, and the recycled blood setting his body on fire, and the feel of someone pressing a hand against his arm, leaving traces of sweat in places that haven’t felt such a thing in entirely too long.

He tries to lose himself again, attempts to seek out the comfort of the haze.

It doesn’t work.

So he swipes his tongue across the length of his lower lip, searching for the morsel of dried blood that he made sure to leave behind.

***

It’s four in the morning.

He knows this because someone just shouted it, their voice loud and almost shrill next to his left ear.

He considers his options. It’s tempting to stay, to delay the inevitable for a wee bit longer. But the buzz from the blood is almost gone, and the ominous threat of sunlight is soon to loom large over the edge of the horizon.

He should go.

He _needs_ to go.

But his movements are sluggish, his legs refusing to cooperate. He attempts to move one foot in front of the other, only to fall against a tall broad chest, to muffle an apology against the spiked sleeve of a grimy leather jacket.

He feels a touch against his shoulder, something like a gentle shove that kicks a broken gear into action. The cogs start to turn, the teeth of one starting to bite into the other, kick starting the forward propulsion of his feet.

Hands reaching out in the dark, plastic giving way to concrete that eventually resolves itself into a cold metal railing that guides him towards the exit. 

A rush of cold air hits as the thick door gives way beneath his shoulder. It sobers him up enough to stand without vertical support. He opens his eyes and steps out into the artificial glare of a flickering street light. 

The thick metal door slams shut behind him.

***

The ground is unstable, jagged cracks in the pavement making him stumble and collapse against coarse brick walls.

If he was still alive, he’s sure he’d be bruised black and blue by now.

(Of course, if he was alive, then he would probably be dead. Like, really, properly, buried-in-a-coffin dead.)

(The semantics of immortality make his head hurt.)

Still, the walking helps. To a degree. He does feel a little less like he’s about to trip over the edge of the Earth. But clarity is a double-edged sword, it seems, and he’s not sure if he doesn’t prefer oblivion. There is less… _baggage_ , in oblivion. Fewer worries, a reduced awareness of the fact that your breath basically screaming human blood to anyone in the know.

Which, to be fair, is basically Himchan. Not that this is a comforting thought.

***

It’s the scent that hits him first. That slightly stale, unpleasant smell, reminding him uncomfortably of candle lit streets and cobblestone roads.

It’s a last resort, and he knows that he hasn’t had enough time to recover properly, know that it’s going to hurt even more the second time around.

But he can’t go home like this. Himchan will know, will be able to smell the human on his breath. So he prepares himself as best as he can; wraps a hand around the nearest solid object (which turns out to be a mildew-covered ramp rail), and clings.

It doesn’t help, but then, there is little that would. 

The agony roars as his mouth tears apart, ripping his head asunder once more.

There’s a sickening pop as his jaw dislocates, the jagged pull of skin separating from skin, and then there’s the white hot blindness of pain, pain, pain, his world growing dark as his eyes crease to slits.

His skull and eyeballs rotate back within the confines of his skin, temporarily blinding him as his mouth stretches to accommodate rapidly thickening gums and sharpened teeth. Gummy flesh gives way and bones reshape themselves in a split second. A jagged bolt of a pain that is somehow beyond pain. 

He doesn’t scream. Used to, but it was a habit he broke a long ago. Instead, he clings to that railing with every ounce of strength that he has, imagines that it’s Himchan’s arm instead.

(They say that you should never meet your maker, but Jongup has always thought that this was bullshit. If it weren’t for Himchan, surviving that first night wouldn’t have been a thing that Jongup could have done.)

It’s over in a second and he blinks. Pain recedes, outstripped by the thirst for some blood, for any blood. 

A beat, then he throws himself against black and dark green plastic, his nails protracting from their beds. They resemble gnarled yellow claws as they rip through boxes and old food and used - and, ah.

Pay dirt.

He lifts up his right hand, a fattened rat struggling as it’s suspended in mid-air, the tip of his clawed pinkie puncturing its centre. Blood starts to trickle down the yellowed bone and he pulls the rat off, so that he’s holding its writhing body in his other hand.

He lifts the rat to his mouth and starts to suck, matted fur brushing against his hardened lips.

The rat screeches in the night, its body growing increasingly weak as more and more of its blood stains his skin, drips onto the same hard gravel that is digging into his knees.

A momentary pop of colour as the rodent dies, and then the world fades to grey.

***

“Where have you been?”

The door has barely shut behind him, but it’d be a lie to say that he hadn’t expected this. The way that the corners of his eyes are turned downwards, the lower lash line bordered by sickly orange pink skin. The downward curve of his plump lower lip, and the way that his head hangs.

Himchan’s knees are folded up against his chest, his slim fingers playing with the fraying ends of those terrible purple track pants.

(Jongup doesn’t know how those pants always end up back in their bedroom. He swears that he’s set them on fire twice now.)

Each facet of Himchan’s miserable appearance is another tiny stake into Jongup’s heart.

Himchan turns his head away as Jongup stares at him, incapable of answering his question. What the hell could he possible say, anyway?

“Do you know how close it is to sunrise?’ He asks, his voice loud and yell-y and trying oh so hard not to bleed with concern. “What if you got lost? What if -“

Jongup closes his eyes, a weak defence against wave after wave after wave of guilt.

Then Himchan says, “At least tell me you’re okay,” his voice defeated, and the stake twists deeper.

He needs to open his eyes, tries to make himself look guileless, innocent. 

“I’m fine. I just needed to, “

(feed from a human)

“Dance off some pent up energy. It’s no big deal.”

“You could have called. Phone booths are a thing now, you know.” His voice is higher, louder, and more than a little petulant.

“I didn’t have any money on me,” he lies, hoping his face is blank enough to be convincing. “You know that I always lose my wallet.” 

He shrugs, tries to play it casual even though he knows he’s shit at acting and Himchan has known him for far too long to be fooled anyway.

Still, Himchan throws him a look that is less annoyed, the hard line of his mouth curling into a fond pout.

You would think that would make things better.

Except for how it doesn’t.

“Aish. We should get one of those staple thingys and attach your wallet to your forehead.”

“I don’t think they work that way.”

Himchan smiles slightly, and Jongup knows that he doesn’t deserve it. Doesn’t deserve him. So he does the only thing that he can - closes his eyes once more, effectively blocking Himchan from sight.

He can still hear him, though, in the muffled sound of sock-covered feet shuffling across the carpet. Can still feel him as spindly worn fingers press gently against his exposed bicep.

“Did you eat?” Himchan asks, his voice hushed and caring and too much.

“I fed off a rat on the way home.” He hopes that his voice doesn’t sound as rushed, as panicked, as he thinks it does.

Himchan’s fingers slip across skin, wrapping around lithe muscle.

“You look wrecked, love.” Himchan says, and the concern makes his stomach lurch.

“It’s nothing.” He steps back, needing to more distance between himself and… _that_. “The rat didn’t agree with me.”

“Poor pup.” There's faint amusement in his voice now, and it drags Jongup down, down, down. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“Do what?” He asks, his words carried on the back of a shiver as Himchan grabs hold, the touch dragging him back from the brink.

Like it always does.

“Feed off rats,” he says, and Jongup opens his eyes again because he can’t help himself.

Himchan seems to take this as some sort of invitation, lifts his free hand so that fingertips are pressing lightly against the curve of Jongup’s jaw. “I hit up Youngjae, managed to make the bastard give us some cow’s blood. It should see us out for the rest of the month.” 

His caress is tender, and there’s a part of him aches for it.

Then there’s the other part - the part that aches _because_ of it.

Himchan leans in, pressing his forehead against Jongup’s own, and he needs -

He needs -

He pulls back, clutching at his stomach as something roils.

“I think I need to be sick.”

***

He brushed his teeth, scrubbed at them for ages. It didn’t work, though - he can still taste the bile in the back of his throat as his clammy body sticks against the black silk of their bed sheet.

Himchan has loosely wrapped an arm around his hip in his half sleep, has pressed his nose against the back of Jongup’s neck as his chest fits snugly against the naked curve of his spine.

Jongup feels trapped.

He knows Himchan will notice his tenseness, because he always notices these things and it’s not like Jongup’s body is being subtle. So he tries to calm himself down, synchronises his breath with the gentle tap tap tap of Himchan’s finger against his hipbone.

Jongup listens, waiting for Himchan’s breath to even out in that soft steady pattern indicative of sleep. Sure enough, Himchan’s breaths eventually down, and he gently pries himself away from that loose hold.

The distance brings slight relief. He doesn’t have to hold back now, can allow his contracting muscles to wreck his slight frame, can let his breath escape his mouth in short, shaky gasps. 

He silently thrashes against black silk, biting down on his tongue with enough force to draw blood, if he had the blood to draw.

He can still taste it. That human. But the high from before has soured, has turned to ash and bile.

He kind of wants to throw up again, but he doesn’t trust his weakened body enough to carry him all of the way to the bathroom, and besides, he doesn’t want Himchan to hear the retching.

Oh, but he hates this. 

Hates the guilt, and himself for being so weak. 

But it’s also a lie to say that he regrets what he has done. 

Even now, as his body shudders and his face aches, there is no remorse for the act itself. 

In the moment, it was… _everything_. 

Living in that black and white world of pig’s blood, or rat’s blood, or fucking… cow’s blood, was fine. It was enough.

But it wasn’t colour.

His spine arches as his body convulses in the dark, and with that movement comes the uncomfortable knowledge that he can’t go back.

Himchan snuffles in his sleep, and it makes Jongup ache. Himchan must be searching for him or something, because Jongup can feel sheets being pulled beneath his thigh in a way that suggests probing fingers reaching out in the dark.

He wants to say that he’s sorry. But that would be a lie.

His eyes fly open as his body twitches once more, as his over-exerted jaw gives a particularly painful throb.

**Author's Note:**

> This is all Makestar's fault. The idea for this fic pretty much popped into my head fully formed as soon as I saw this: http://maxshiroyama.tumblr.com/post/165327691799


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